


Eggs for breakfast

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [47]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 06:47:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20335834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Summer, just around the bend.A typical day in the Constant.





	1. Morning

Wilson woke up to the smell of something burning.

Normally that would have him up and frantic, especially since it was just starting summer, hot months ahead and that wonderful thing called spontaneous combustion, but as he lay there in his all too stuffy tent Wilson stared glumly up at the ceiling and wondered _why_.

It smelled like burning eggs, and through the gap in the sagging tent door there were muttered curses and the sing song of the morning birds.

Wilson heaved a sigh, rubbed his eyes to drive away any drowsiness he still had before finally sitting up. It wasn't even that early; he must have slept in a bit.

It took a moment to find his clothing, having thrown them off somewhere last night. Someone had gotten it in their head to actually fold them up and place them on one of the smaller chests, and having to struggle against the already rising heat and humidity just to get his vest presentable was a vain affair; trying to smooth out the wrinkles didn't do much, so he settled with running his dull claws through his hair in an attempt with at least fixing that up.

By the time he actually got out of the tent, for once not tripping, that burned smell was fading a bit. Still smelled strongly of eggs, and the nearby bird cage held one such bird who gave him a rather accusing stare, but it did not look as if anything else was on fire.

That did not stop him from leveling a look at the man who was currently attempting to figure out how to save charred remains in a roughly made pan over by the fire, putting his hands on his hips as he watched for a moment.

It was pretty easy to figure out the chain of events that lead up to here, as Maxwell muttered curses and scraped at the pan, back still turned. There was the fire, low from neglect, there was the bird in its cage, watching them with dark accusing eyes, the pan itself was only a prototype, Chester was sprawled out nearby, still licking up bits of eggshell stuck to his furry maw, and there was the Codex Umbra, set on the log bench and looking as innocent as it possibly could.

Which wasn't very innocent really.

"Did Willow visit? Smells a bit more burned than usual."

Maxwell almost seemed to jump at his voice, didn't look as if he realized he was there, but all he got when the man turned was a rather angry looking, if a bit frustrated, sneer. Wilson ambled over, not very impressed as he eyed the rather blackened pan.

Prototype it may be, but he had been rather proud at figuring it out. Just a bit of clay, stone, flint, and while he was working on using marble or even moon stone on later attempts this one had seemed to work rather satisfactory so far.

Except now it looked a bit warped, and certainly not smelling all that great.

"I was...preoccupied."

Wilson glanced at the book currently taking up space on the log, but made do with taking the pan out of Maxwells grip. The surface was still hot, the rag about its handle warm against his palm, and the other man looked thoroughly done with dealing with it and backed off, massaging his gloved hands when he seemed to think Wilson wasn't looking.

Nerveless claws meant he couldn't quite feel the heat so well with his hands, but he supposed he should figure out a better, less heated material for the handle. Something that wouldn't conduct the heat to the cookers hands, burn them up when one wasn't paying enough attention.

Or maybe he should just figure out how to make oven mitts. Add something else to his ever growing list of things to figure out, as usual.

"Why not use the crockpot?" Wilson dug a claw into the mass of charred remains, the smell not quite eggy anymore, and by now the firepit was sputtering its last flames and dying out. A relief really; he still needed to set up that endothermic fire, and the day was only going to get hotter.

Maxwell answered with a huff, snatching up the Codex and tucking it away into his jacket, adjusting his suit and in general looking rather grumpy. 

Wilson frowned at that; summer meant heat, heat meant heat stroke, and that just meant everyone should either carry around a thermal stone or at the very least wear something a bit more weather acclimated. There were stones in one of the chests, but he had no cold fires ready just yet and, clothing wise, while he may get along just fine Maxwell was stubborn when it came to this sort of thing.

So that left the umbrellas, which were in sorry states of disrepair after spring. Someone was supposed to have mended them, and that someone wasn't Wilson.

Still, this early in the morning and he had burned eggs and a rather grumpy companion to deal with. The pan was still warm, but Wilson was able to dislodge a few of those blackened chunks, claws scratching flakes loose and eyeing the mess for a moment, thinking.

"Well, I guess a prototype can always be a _heat_ or miss."

It took a moment, but the instant the other man's shoulders tensed Wilson continued idly on.

"I mean, this is certainly a _char_ cry from what you could have made in the crockpot." 

Maxwell had turned around, face impassive besides that tick of an almost glower, watching him stiffly, and Wilson completely ignored him in favor of messing with the pan. The damage wasn't all too bad really; a bit of hot water and maybe some of the steel wool they had hidden away and this could be back to almost brand new again, if a bit warped on the sides.

Perhaps he should work on some sort of edible no stick ingredient; insect butter was a bit too difficult to get a hold of often enough for cooking, and the beefalo don't produce milk in quantities that could make enough butter. Neither did volt goats, and Wilson put that on the backlog of what he needed to figure out for later. Right now he was rather preoccupied.

"You could have just _ashed_ me for help, Max. I don't know how you could have _fowled_ up a sunnyside up egg this bad."

Maxwell was being particularly quiet, the moment stretching in silence before Wilson finally turned his gaze back up to him.

For a moment the man almost looked to be in deep thought, before he straightened up, a hard sneer on his face as he looked down at him, arms crossed over his chest.

"If you are done _scrambling_ on and on, we do need to do something besides this." Before Wilson could even try to argue that Maxwell turned away, towards the chests as he stepped around Chester and his eyebone. "Also, _yolks_ on you; you get to make breakfast today."

For a moment Wilson couldn't quite figure out how to answer that, besides maybe an almost wheeze of a snort. He had to turn away to stifle it, not willing to admit defeat just yet, but then the full meaning of what the other man had just said got through and he immediately got his bearings back. 

"Hey, today was your turn!"

Maxwell didn't even turn to him, just shrugged as he dug around in a chest.

Chester panted, tongue lolling out as he almost seemed to give Wilson a look, one that seemed to ask him 'well, what did you expect?'. The eyebone blinked, looked back and forth almost dizzily between both men, and Wilson heaved a sigh.

Well, he thought as he turned towards the ice box and whatever they had left in there, pan still in hand, he supposed he brought that upon himself. The red bird eyed him darkly, quiet still, not even a peep from its beak, and Wilson watched it a moment before angling the pan and tipping the blackened remains of the eggs into its cage.

The bird, for its part, didn't seem all that picky and hopped right down, pecking away as he eyed it miserably.

Eggs for breakfast sure would have been nice.


	2. Evening

Scraping crusted hound blood off of one's hands was just something one never wanted to end up doing. It seemed especially worse when it was stuck up to his claws, and Wilson frowned as he half heartedly tried to wipe the mess off with a cloth towel. 

But, at least he had them skinned now instead of later. The meat wasn't all that useful, but he had strung up what he could salvage and the rest was carved up and shoved into one of the iceboxes. The corpses had been easier to drag around after losing all that weight, and now all he had to do was wait for the skeletons to be picked over.

A few days for that and then he could start rummaging around for uses of hound bone. Always better using the wolves than somebody's leftover body, or at least that was what he personally preferred. Didn't mean he would turn up his nose to available resources, but for now he was spared the internal turmoil.

But, no injuries this time! He felt bruised and battered, but nothing broken, no bites. Not even Maxwell had gotten so much as a scratch, though that limp was back again and he had complained earlier about his back.

That might have been just because Wilson had needed help dragging the hounds back here to camp. Getting jumped by the beasts had been a bit of an unwelcome surprise. They were supposed to have at least a few more days before an attack, and having to hear the older man grumble and huff about miscalculating had been tiresome. Two hounds did not make a pack, and it had set Wilson on edge, wondering where the rest were.

Thankfully, while he had taken the time to check the spider traps for useable glands, Maxwell off mucking about with the farms and berry bushes, complaining the whole time, Wilson had a surprising little run in with everyone's favorite spider child. 

Webber had been doing the rounds, visiting tier two and three nests, clicking and clacking and whistling little tunes, and when they had spotted him it had taken a few minutes for Wilson to wait out their hugging and excited greetings. They brought news, babbling on and on about the camp they were living in at the moment, Wigfrid and Willow having been their choice this time around, and shared a bag filled to the brim with spider resources they had collected that morning. More silk than anything, but they mentioned the Varg that Wolfgang had found a bit ago, and how Wigfrid had teamed up with a few of the others to hunt it down.

That explained the hounds from earlier, which did alleviate that stress, and once Wilson had finally been able to calm them down and slip from their grip he had given Webber the promise of visiting more often sometime in the future before finally getting back on track. He had a soft spot for them, everybody did, but he just didn't have the time. It had been a pinkie promise, so now Wilson would have to plan to head out in that direction in a few days. It would be rude to leave Maxwell out of visiting, but neither Wigfrid nor Willow got along very well with him, so he may have to leave the camp to the older mans care for a short while, and that meant making sure it wouldn't all just spontaneously combust the instant he lost sight of it.

The endothermic fire pit was finished, the stones were cooling in its depths, and he was blueprinting out the process for a flingomatic in the near future. Evening was finally drawing to a close, the heat of the midday easing back, and it was still cold in the dark of night, leftover humidity from the rains, but it was just bearable enough. The tent would need to be adjusted, let in more airflow so that the heat wouldn't suffocate either of them in the full fiery of summer nights, but it was still early enough, there was time for all that.

Never nearly enough, Wilson finally giving up with the purple lavender stains on his talons, heaving a sigh as he crumpled up the ragged cloth and tossed it next to the chest. There was speckled hound blood on his vest still, and Maxwell's suit jacket hadn't escaped unscathed either, so that meant he'd need to do some cleaning tomorrow, probably early in the morning to allow everything to dry. The ponds were not too far away, and though he'd prefer the creek it was too small to allow the work of scrubbing stains.

Perhaps he'd get lucky, see someone over there doing laundry as well. Wickerbottom was usually in the area, busied herself with her camps cleaning duties, and sometimes it was even Wes. The extra, less nagging company was always appreciated.

With the crackling blue flames glowing strong, the darker warm colors deepening into something almost night like but not quite, Wilson heaved a sigh and turned about, mind turning to something else more important than laundry. There had been stale jerky in the icebox to eat for most of the day, and he had tossed together a makeshift stew with bits of hound fat, old rabbit, and one of the eggplants that was left from last harvest, but now their stores were looking a bit sparse.

So that meant laundry and scavenging tomorrow. Hunting, or perhaps a bit of trading with the others, though they had more than enough of hound meat to last. Eating too much of the stuff got him feeling ill, and while Maxwell didn't really complain about this one thing, out of all others far less worse, Wilson knew it pained him far more than he let on. 

The last time they had lived off of spider and wolf meat had been a harsh, isolated winter, and fighting off encroaching shadows and whispers while his partner suffered cramps and fevers, the both of them too ill to really be functional, had not allowed survival in the late coming spring. 

According to Webber and Wendy, WX78 had been the one to find their old camp first, and that had explained why most of it was deconstructed. Wendy had assured him that they weren't the only ones unlucky; the long winter had wiped out a few of the others, and the automaton had taken advantage of the deaths.

Apparently, Willow had not taken that all too kindly. The fires that had consumed the robots farms had almost destroyed their bee hives, and while there was no evidence saying that someone had _actually_ caused it all WX78 had been banned from Wigfrids camp after an incident in which a certain well known arsonist was almost strangled to death in front of the children. 

Sometimes, Wilson couldn't help but feel relieved that not all drama centered around himself or Maxwell. It was a guilty relief, but at least he wasn't always in the thick of it all.

Looking about camp, small and yet nothing like the ones he was more used to throwing together, Wilson at least was assured in the safety nets nowadays. People nearby he could rely upon, and his own work of course; there was an effigy camp, everyone tied together safely, and Maxwell had fit together a few amulets awhile back, safely stowed in the chest next to the tent. Wickerbottom had the hearts, for emergencies. 

Nearby the fire, close to the cool tinted flames and its spreading chill, squinting down to silk and stretched pigskin, Maxwell seemed to be focusing his time into patching up the umbrellas. One of them was already set against the log bench, only the faintest of seams indicating where the old holes had been, and Wilson took a breath before making his slow way over.

Just to have a look at the others progress, obviously. Maxwell may be good with his hands, but sometimes his work got a bit sloppy, needed to be looked over every once in awhile. Wilson couldn't sew very well, especially not anymore no matter how he tried, but he had an eye for it. Once upon a time, he had made do with patching up blankets, trying his hand with old quilts that no one wanted anymore. Most of the blankets his house had held had been patched up by his hands; now they laid forgotten, eaten away by moths and time.

He did hesitate a moment, waited patiently as a foggy shadow clone drifted past him, stiff and completely ignorant of his presence as it went along its way to a chest, dug a bit to fetch more silk. Not even a single greeting, though Wilson had politely angled his head into a nod, a force of habit.

The hound attack had been surprising, enough of an ambush to force an automatic summoning, and it had caught him off guard to turn about and see one of the very shadows up and sliding a sword through the last hounds throat, Maxwell having been thrown back and already slowly getting back to his feet. The beasts decapitated head had landed solid and loud and still very much twitching, snapping, but Wilson had gotten the older man up and assured himself neither of them had been hurt, shadow swordsman standing guard as the adrenaline finally eased its grip. The mystery of the attack had Maxwell unwilling on sending it away, and Wilson at the time had no qualms on that decision.

Even when it was found that they were in no danger, the other man still had not gotten rid of it. The doppelganger hung close by, darting here or there by some unknown, unheard command, and at the end of the day Wilson didn't find it all that important in insisting that its existence should be extinguished just yet.

He tried to not let himself question that side of reality all too often; science, after all, always had a tried true answer.

And the Constant, its horrid Throne, had given him differing answers a long while back, and if he had anymore questions they were silenced by the darkness that scrawled up Maxwells hands, encased his fingers and up his wrist, well to the elbows; his worry was useless by now, so he made do with asking questions on what he cared about far more often.

Which was science, of course. Science was far more important to him than _magic_. 

Still, the clones were hard to explain when it came right down to it. And nightmare fuel was ever harder to study, especially when it seemed more interested in wailing and slithering from his claws than acting as the conduit that it certainly should be. If he took time to study it, Wilson studied it _his_ way, and no one else's, not Maxwells, and certainly not _Theirs_. 

If he got anything else from it, they were his answers. He didn't feel the need to share them anyhow.

The doppelganger busied itself, fetched a few dried springy pigskin rolls, some more bundles of silk, and Maxwell ignored it as it laid the supplies by him, organized, settled in a way that left most of the log bench unhindered and open. Wilson found himself a bit appreciative at the gesture, at least it wasn't being messy, and settled next to the man, a polite bit of distance between them as he looked to the dark contrast blue flames.

Chester panted to himself nearby, plopped down next to the tent, eyebone cradled in those big paws, and the sight did make him feel a bit lighter all in all. The living chest was hard to come by, especially since everyone always wanted to have him along in their camp, but he had won the right this time around so now Otto von Chesterfield was to stay with him for a few seasons.

It always felt like his heart was breaking whenever he had to give up the fuzzy beast to the next in line, but it would be selfish to keep Chester to himself. Webber loved the chest, and Wigfrid was always singing songs of his bravery, and even Wickerbottom seemed to like the beast whenever Chester was trotting along at her slow pace, so Wilson knew he couldn't make an ungentlemanly fuss about it.

That did not mean he didn't dote upon Chester, and Maxwell has already accused him of spoiling the chest, but Wilson knew better than to rise to that bait.

Besides, he's seen Maxwell when he thought he was alone, Chester huffing at the man's side, being tossed scraps of food or leaning into hesitant pets. No one could escape Otto von Chesterfields charm, not even the former Nightmare King, and it made Wilson feel better, knowing Maxwell and Chester got along just fine.

The faint cold flames were a nice change to the heat of all afternoon and he picked at his clothing a moment, exhaled a held breath at the reprieve. It would only get worse, and tomorrow was to be hotter.

He didn't _hate_ summer, but it was not his favorite season. Spring was better; he could dedicate his time to farming then, working the alchemy machine into more, better advancements in the science of agriculture, and that in turn meant there would be more food at the end of the day.

That spring had not been a bad one, besides the usual rough start from winter melt off. The seeds that he's been collecting as of late were growing more diverse, not quite normal crops but familiar enough to cook with. Eventually, he was going to figure out piping, cut his time dallying with lugging water buckets around, and the irrigation would speed up the process of filling the icebox to ease his worries on the hunger issue.

Summer, unfortunately, was not kind to farming. Maxwell had assured him earlier that the plots of land were heat proofed now, nothing should catch fire, though with still having time before it got that hot Wilson would inevitably head over and fix up anything that would need fixing. 

Maxwell was not all that agriculturally minded, really. The only things Wilson has seen him successfully grow have been dark flowers and the unusual trees, and those obviously had more to them than normal planting.

Again, steeped in the nightmare fuel. The residue just didn't agree with Wilson, no matter what he tried, so he settled with the understanding of it being a by product and little else.

Made Maxwell a bit offended when they argued about the stuff though.

With the sunlight fading ever so slowly, shortened summer nights ahead and these much longer evenings, Wilson let himself relax, for just a moment, a silent sigh from his chest. Hanging his head, the cold from the fire helping as he ran his claws through his hair a moment, the day had been hot enough and he just was not looking forward to it getting worse, he really wasn't. 

At least there was no worry on the Dragonfly; the beast had found an appropriate nest site a long while back, and now it hardly roamed a few feet away from its desert home. The oasis nearby was the only reason anyone even knew the giant was still there, but this summer Wilson was not on Antlion duty.

No caves either, or at least for the first half. He still needed to discuss that with Maxwell, but for now all he needed to plan ahead for was the flingomatic and making sure they had food. Everything else was a secondary leisure that, nowadays, he could actually afford.

Always made it easier, having another set of hands around to help.

For the moment, the silence seemed almost comfortable, and Wilson let his shoulders relax.

"Finished with all the running around, finally?"

Wilson turned his head to eye Maxwell, the older man still focusing on the stitching of pigskin together, silk thread twined in patterns and hound tooth needle held carefully in his gloved hands, and after a beat of silence Maxwell looked over at him a moment, face impassive before returning back to his work.

"And here I thought today was to be taken slow."

"Summer's just around the corner, Maxwell." Wilson sluggishly sat up, the cold of the fire finally beating back whatever heat was leftover from the day, and ran his claws through his hair as to smooth it back into shape. The shivery visage of the shadow clone hovered nearby, empty handed and still, patient almost, and he gave it a blank frown for a moment. "I don't find the thought of catching fire all that appealing, so the sooner everything is done the sooner we can relax."

"And once your preparations for summer are finished, it's back to winter instead. There is no end for the busy work, is there?"

Wilson gave the man a look, but Maxwells face remained blank, carefully masked over.

"As I recall, you did make it that way."

"...yes." Maxwell huffed, hesitated a moment as he looked over his handiwork, before carefully snipping the silk thread and stretching the umbrellas repaired membrane. "Obviously."

Wilson sat silent for a moment, mind turning over the words, before making the decision to scoot closer. The blue tinge from the flames made the pigskin look different, and the rapidly fading sunlight darkened even more, but the texture was still visible.

The pigs here had an odd skin, flexible and waterproof, but it was always a bit difficult getting rid of every single bristle or fuzz leftovers. 

It took a moment before Maxwell subtly angled his work enough for Wilson to see clearly, and the stitching was hardly visible, the patch only marginally lighter from the original hide. Spider silk was handy stuff, and he carefully ran a dull claw down the seam, not even catching once before Maxwell huffed and pulled the umbrella back, closing it up with finality.

"That should keep the sun off you for the whole summer, shouldn't it?" Wilson scratched his chin, the scraggy reminder that he would need to shave soon rising in his mind, and watched as Maxwell took up the second umbrella, holding them out as the shadow clone darted over, took them to put away in one of the chests. "Wouldn't want you to end up a pile of ashes before autumn."

"I am not a vampire of any sort, Higgsbury, no matter how much entertainment the others seem to get out of the thought. Who even started that anyway?" Growled at him, but the older man's tone was even and Wilson couldn't find any trace of actual anger or bitterness in there just yet. "I'm willing to bet it was the firestarter; always making up things, that one."

"I'm only joking, Max. You'll just get all sunburned up." Wilson rolled his eyes, nudged the older man's side with his elbow in jest. "And you shouldn't say things about someone who isn't around to defend herself."

"More like burn me at the stake." Maxwell heaved a sigh, adjusted his seating and crossed his legs, arms folded in his lap as he looked to the fire. The shadow clone gilded nearby, silent, hovering in the background like a visible ambience. He didn't look at Wilson, instead tilted his head back and closed his eyes, and now his voice dulled a bit, drew tired. "...I am not looking forward to this season."

"Neither am I." Wilson answered back, mouth a thin line as silence fell between them, only the crackling of the blue firepit, the near silent shuffles of the bird in its cage. 

He caught its dark eye for a moment, hopping about its cage, before the red bird turned away and puffed up its feathers, hunkered down for the coming night. Looking to the sky, Wilson could see the faded half moon as it grew more visible, and now the evening was at its close. 

Night was coming in, and in a few days, maybe a week the dark times would be shortened, the summer season cutting time up even more than usual. Less sleep, more awake times, and the heat was going to be near unbearable.

The thermal stones glowed in the firepit, pebbled surfaces dark blue, turquoise even, and Wilson reminded himself to set a few into the icebox tomorrow. The cooler it was in there, the longer food would last for them. 

Hound meat was even less appetizing when it was rotting.

"...I should head to bed." Wilson clicked his claws together, ignored the faint goosebumps on his arms as the endothermic fire did its job, and visibility away from the blue light was diminishing by the second. Evening finishing its close, and in comes rampant, suffocating night. The log bench was not a comfortable seat, but today had been tiring, and while he knew the tent would be far more comfortable Wilson didn't particularly feel like getting up just yet.

Maxwell shifted a moment, brushing against him as they sat side by side, but he did little else.

"No one is stopping you."

Wilson raised an eyebrow, looking to the older man and finding his gaze avoided. A moment of silence stretched, and he waited until Maxwell finally opened his eyes to look at him nonchalantly, an air of apathy in just that.

"We don't need a watch tonight, since the hound attack is still in a few days." 

The older man went over his words carefully, blinking at him boredly for a moment before he straightened his back into a stretch, rolled his shoulders as he gave Wilson an unreadable look.

"And are you inviting me to bed, Higgsbury?"

That did give him pause, for a moment, a beat of silence before Wilson shook himself out of it with a firmness he didn't let himself think about. It was just like the older man, to try and get on his nerves, at this hour, this late, the both of them tired from a long and frankly too damn stressful day.

Maxwell skirting about his insomnia, of which Wilson knew very well all about, of course he did, was not enough to deter him.

"I'd rather not wake up in the morning to you having not moved an inch and grumpy as hell, so if you want to put it that way, then yes. Go to bed, Maxwell." Wilson could see that flash of indignation, finally something getting through the older mans stubborn fatigue, and he crossed his arms, gave him a stoic, firm look.

For a moment, Maxwell seemed to be struggling for an answer. The exhaustion of the day must be catching up, and Wilson was banking on an easy victory.

Unfortunately, he seemed to have miscalculated. Maxwell uncrossed his legs, somehow settled himself even more so in his seat, and rather suddenly picked at his suit jacket and drew out the blocky form of the Codex from its depths, completely unconcerned. As he delicately opened it up, letting the pages dictate themselves and flutter this way and that, the older man gave Wilson an almost sly look, borderline apathetically bored of their whole conversation.

"As I said, no one is stopping you. I, however, have more pressing matters to attend to."

And just like that, Maxwells dark eyes turned to the Codex Umbra and Wilson was left sitting there and feeling like he had missed something somewhere.

He clicked his claws together, turning to stare accusingly at the fire, and he didn't quite know why he felt a bit offended, maybe mocked, but he certainly didn't like it all that much.

Brushed to the side, for a book! As if that damn thing would help in any way for the summer! 

It was more likely to burst into flames, really! 

So Wilson sat for a few more moments, minutes, mind turning as he ignored the fact that yes, it did leave him a bit unhappy, perhaps angry even, but in the end he finally counted to ten, got to twenty before releasing a stressing held breath, letting it go. It didn't matter, of course. Survival was more important, and he did need his sleep for that, no matter which way he thought of it.

So, finally, Wilson stood up in one go, the cold of the fire washing over him, settled now in his clothes, worn and dirty and needing a good washing. The heat was weak enough to be beaten back, and it may not even be too much in the tent, so at least sleep shouldn't be too hard to fall into. Forcefully stilling his claws, taking a breath to steady himself, letting himself think about sleep and shoving away that little thread of vague unhappiness at the thought of an empty tent, Wilson turned to address Maxwell like the well composed person that he most certainly was.

The older man had his focus buried into the Codex, ignoring him completely as the pages shifted every once in awhile, fingers holding certain spots as he balanced the book in his lap, and Wilson couldn't fight off the frown he had for a moment. There were no shadows now, only the faint double that hovered off near the outskirts, but the knowledge of what the Codex was has never settled his feelings on it.

It's ruined lives, many of them, and seeing it be used like some recreational time waster still set a shiver up his spine. He knew Maxwell did not use it as such, not at all, but it all felt the same.

Honestly, maybe he did want to see the damn thing burst into flames. If he followed the true logic, all of his problems led to the Codex.

But, it was more complex than that, and Wilson found himself swallowing his unease in favor of that morally grey sliding scale. His answers were his own, and he'd not let them interfere with his life anymore than they already did.

"Fine then." He didn't quite know what else to say, so Wilson stood a moment in silence, before turning away to the tent. So what if the tent was just for him tonight? Meant more space for him to stretch out then, that was all.

And, he really was looking forward to finally just ending the day.

With no answer of any kind from Maxwell, Wilson took that as his cue.

And then proceeded to almost fall flat on his face just as he tripped on his way over the log.

For that split second, Wilson was absolutely sure that the eyes out in the dark night were laughing at him.

And then there were arms about him, hefting him upright, and he had to take a deep breath as the rush of almost taking a mouthful of dirt caught up with him, and goddamn it he was too tired from all this to even want to deal with it.

It was shadow that hovered at his side, holding his weight up with that silently polite tilt of its head, solid and firm, and Wilson shivered at the odd warm cold numbness it left from its touch, pulling away as he got his dignity back to its normal self.

He may not have much left, and it was rather tattered, but Wilson kept to it the best that he could. He couldn't be a gentleman scientist if he didn't have the dignity and politeness to back it all up; otherwise, he was just a scientist! Not at all what he was aiming for.

The shadow wavered, foggy at the edges before solidifying, arms raised passively as it stepped back from him, and it gave him enough time to chance a look to Maxwell.

Who was still sitting there, nose buried in his book, but the older man wasn't fast enough to look away in time; for a moment Wilson locked gazes from over the Codex, the shiny dark glaze of Maxwells eyes reflecting oddly with the endothermic fire, and it was a silent look.

Not quite understanding, or anything that held weight to it really, but Wilson held it a moment longer than it usual would hold.

And then Maxwells eyes were back to the shadow words of his book, and Wilson found himself exhaling a breath and feeling whatever bitterness that had settled in his lungs, his chest, crumble away.

The shadow drifted, floating light steps taking it away, back around the bench to patrol the blue fires ring of light, but not before Wilson had to still himself, eyes cast downwards as its numbing hand trailed up his arm, lighting a shivering touch to his shoulder, a slow path to his neck, a cold heat cut through his rugged clothes as its fingers brushed against him almost affectionately.

And then it was away, dragged on by some unheard command, and Wilson had to suck in a breath, unfurl his claws from prickling fists, and turn away to the tent once more.

Safely away from tripping over anything this time, and he cursed his clumsiness, the lack of foresight that plagued him too often. The mass of Chester hadn't even been disturbed by it all, snoring softly and eye bone cradled in big paws, and he made sure to not wake the living chest as he passed by; for all the mysteries that made up Otto von Chesterfield, overheating, not exhaustion, was one of them. The better Chester slept in the cold, the less likely anyone would have to lug him back to camp in a collapsed mass of sweaty fur.

Rising up the tents door, the fabric worn and needing a good repair sometime in the future, Wilson did get enough in him to give a look back, just as masked over as the other man as his voice rose from within him.

"Goodnight, Maxwell."

There was a pause, as he waited, and then Wilson turned back into climbing into the tent, already scolding himself, feeling even more mocked now, why did he always think it could be different-

"Goodnight, Wilson. Sleep well."

He stopped a moment, just about to close the door, and this time it rose unbidden, snaking an almost too small smile on his face. He was just too used to scowling at this point, he really was.

But smile Wilson did, and accompanied by whatever faint feeling it brought with it. It was nice enough, whatever it was, and then he let the door close, went to shrug off his vest and tuck himself away in the handmade blankets and fur rolls.

For now, the too faint heat couldn't beat the blue flames chilly nature, and it was far comfier than it had any right to be.

Wilson heaved a sigh, less tense than usual. 

Summer wasn't here just yet.


	3. Night

The air wasn't stuffy just yet, a hint of air flow and the mild coolness from the outside world, and the dark tent allowed sleep in a much quicker, calmer way than it usually would.

Wilson was practically fully asleep by the time there was the shifting of the door, nudged closed and the shuffling of blankets and feet, the swish of clothing. He had originally gone to bed on his side, holding to the moose goose feathered pillow and tucked into the thicker blankets, but now hours have gone by, the dictations of drowsiness, and he's shifted about for other comfortable positions.

As tired and half asleep as he was, Wilson didn't even open his eyes, not just yet processing that he wasn't alone. 

There was a barely audible sigh, almost hesitation as he drifted on the edge of sleep and wakefulness, and the thick fur blankets had gotten tangled up under him more than over, not cold enough for them but not hot enough to push them off. More movement, shuffling about as the blankets were plucked at, and his consciousness briefly picked up touch, to his head, fingers drifting through his hair, and it was enough to almost start him awake.

Not enough for a conscious effort, but Wilson shifted, almost dream sleep attempting to drag him back, before there was sudden presence at his side as a thin body scooted next to him, arranged the blankets to once more be over him, the both of them. A warm pressure pressed close, and when a huff of an almost made question escaped him, more like a sleepy grunt of sound as he blinked his eyes open a split second, closing them at the exhaustion that fell hard once more, there was a low answering hum back.

"Just me, Higgsbury, nothing to worry about."

While he was much too drowsy to fully comprehend actual words, the voice was familiar enough and Wilson relaxed, lethargically raising a hand to scrub at his eyes, itchy tiredness and fatigue making him too limp to really give any sort of answer back. In his own mind, fogged over with almost sleep, drifting even now as it was, there was familiarity and warmth and the physical sensation of touch, and that was enough to quell whatever automatic responses he usually had to waking suddenly in the night.

Survival in a rough world called for rough awakenings; if he was more awake, Wilson would recall the very early days, of being attacked while in the tent, having it fall upon him as hounds ripped it to shreds hunting him down. Nowadays, he was more than prepared for such a scenario.

Tonight, however, when thin arms circled about his chest, a moment of hesitation, or patience, before the body at his side pulled in close, there was no instinctive, automatic recall in a usually violent reaction. This, as his subconscious knew, was a familiar affair.

Still, old habits die hard; Wilson breathed in deep, slowly squinted his eyes open to the dark ceiling of the tent, and found himself for the most part almost awake.

He had indeed taken up most of the space of the tent it looked like, spread on his back, but the blankets had been untangled and pulled up and now, instead of passing out alone, someone had finally joined him. Slowly, and after who knows how many hours, but in the end it looked as if Maxwell had finally gotten over his stubbornness and had crawled his way here.

Wilson was too tired to school himself into being anything at the moment; a smile was tugging at his lips, feeling the other man having curled about him, head tucked down and pressed close together. It faintly caught him that Maxwell had even shrugged off his dirtied suit jacket, a first almost, but the fact that he was even cuddling up to Wilson sort of outweighed that.

It wasn't the best of positions, but with him on his back and the other man having tucked himself close Wilson was not in any real discomfort, not at all. Really, he could drift off right here, right now, whenever, and it sounded rather appealing to his drowsy mind to do so.

As he closed his eyes, Wilson felt Maxwell adjust himself once more, those hands still gloved, of course, tangling into his wrinkled shirt, and then brushing touch as the older man lifted himself and laid his head against Wilsons chest. He was too light to cause any problems, but Wilson fought off the temptations for easy sleep a moment, eyes still closed as he exhaled a little heavily, got his words, and drowsy brain, back into a somewhat workable order.

"...'m not up for anything tonight." 

"And I'm not asking for anything, Higgsbury." Maxwell's answer was almost immediate, sighed out yet in firm resolve, and Wilson let his thoughts swirl around a moment, could feel himself attempting to fall under even more but pushing it away, at least for a few more moments of suspicion. The older man's voice dulled, drifted almost, and he could almost imagine the man, eyes closed and nuzzled up against him as he was, holding firm. "Just go back to bed, Wilson."

Maxwell stayed where he had placed himself, curled close, arm outstretched over Wilsons chest and holding lightly to him, and a moment later there was more shuffling as those long legs outstretched a bit, tangled lightly with his own. Enough so that, after another moment of silent, slow deliberation, Wilson found himself heaving a sigh and turning his head, relaxing with more finality this time. Sleeping, now, was at the forefront of whatever conscious mind he had at the moment, and the exhaustion of the day had beaten back his more automatic responses. 

He did have enough in him, however, to raise a hand, sort of clumsily but in good faith, and rest his dull claws to the top of his partners head, lightly dragging through thin hair a moment. There was that exhaled breath against him, wavering and almost stuttered, as if held in for all too long, and then the adjusting of position, the relaxed silence afterwards.

Knowing what Maxwell was doing, and in the back of his mind knowing the other man may not even get to sleep tonight, at least assured that more tense part of Wilson's instincts. If something terrible or surprising happened, they'd not be caught too unawares.

After all, Maxwell was listening very closely at the moment; he was listening to Wilsons heartbeat.

Wilson finally started to drift off once more, warm presence curled up against him, and tomorrow was going to be hotter, and rougher, and perhaps even worse than today. 

But right now he was sleepy, mind a foggy mush of sensation and vague emotion, thought, and it was enough for him to be like this, now.

It was more than enough.


End file.
